Black Velvet (20) (Patreon)

You can imagine my shock when the grocery bags from the food mart greet me from the counter, my keys perched next to them. I stare at them in wonder, questioning inanimate objects' ability to come and go as they please.

A grocery angel, sent from above.

I yank my phone from my pocket as it chimes again, startling me — and I hear my Dad groan in exasperation from down the hall. I'm definitely getting lectured after work. I think, but silently pray to the gods above that he forgets during my nine-hour shift because he is old after all.

Or lazy. Or maybe he's just tired of giving out lectures to his two weird man-spawns.

I prop open the front door and lug my messenger bag from beside the key hook up onto my shoulder, checking my phone for the time,

3:37

— and then, the reason for the incessant notifications from my phone.

(Incoming Message) Nic:
U lil asshole did something happen

(Incoming Message) Nic:
Tell me what's going on
ur too quiet lately

(Incoming Message) Nic:
I have investigating skills toothbrush

(Incoming Message) Nic:
Too* that's it, i'm coming home this weekend

I groan, wondering what exactly happened to make my brother such a strange individual. I think it had something to do with puberty, or maybe the internet, but I can't really be sure.

"Okay mysterious groceries," I coo, leaning away from the door and over them like they might spring forth and murder me, Final Bestination style. My keys gleam from beside the pop tart box, and I snatch them up, "how did you get into my home?"

I decide it's not all that important that I hadn't been given a proper response from a non-verbal commodity, shrugging as I swing my keys around my index finger. I provide the groceries with one final, suspicious glare before I pull the door shut behind me.

Mom probably saw them and brought them in —

I'll probably get lectured for that too.

Well.  I still have enough time for hot chocolate if I leave for work now.

I snap the lock, mind on the prep list, and whether or not Ms. Martin had ordered the heavy cream I'd asked for last week.

Probably not, because somehow she manages to overstock on things like cornstarch but can't manage to buy the ever-important baking ingredients.

For her bakery.

My foot catches on the corner of the toolbox that peeks from between the bushes by my car, and I right myself, prepared for my clumsiness to conveniently be on display for the Amadeus man.  It's become such an everyday occurrence for my day to day that I've just started to expect a snarky come back each time I do something mildly humiliating — but nothing happens.  It's quiet, and the street lamps hum from a block upwards. 

He wanted to talk about the job.

I glance over to where he usually lurks, but I'm greeted by the slow flicker of his porch light and an empty porch swing. I frown, twisting the strap of my messenger bag between my fists.

He told me he wanted to talk.

I wonder if maybe he'd changed his mind, decided that The Sweet Spot wasn't prime job material (because it's not.)  Perhaps he just found it in himself that it would possibly not be in his best interest to work forty hours a week around his best friend's brother who he might want to maim.

I check my watch,

3:46

Or maybe he fell asleep.

—

I find out about midway through my morning that Tobias had definitely not fallen asleep, but decided the perfectly polite thing to do was blow off my help completely.

We opened an hour ago.

Somehow, running on just five hours of sleep, I'd finished six batches of cinnamon rolls, danishes, and stupidly over-priced mini tartlets that Ms. Martin has shoved onto the menu last minute in hopes of ridding herself of the kiwi she's over-purchased.

She's also given me these strange peach-colored dishes to plate a bourbon pecan pie (that was not in her budget) for a wealthier customer.  I stare at the order placed for a Richard Mantel, for far longer than I should — nerves a live wire until I realize the surname is not who I thought.

Richard Deirdre.  Deirdre.

I secretly hope to God I never have to face Richard again. I remember his knuckles, the possessive set of his shoulders as we'd talked, as my gaze had drifted to Abigail Amadeus who occupied the space beside him.

Then...  My thoughts get away from me.  They shift back to the man at the diner, to Tobias kissing him with teeth and tongue— of a stupidly loud sports car.

Does Tobias have a type?

I swallow and roll my fists into the mixture under me, coating it with another layer of flour. I feel something very akin to envy, and then horror.

No, why would I be jealous?

That's so wrong, bad-wrong.

I think of the sports-car revving to life again.

I don't want to be his type — nope.

I couldn't possibly be, anyway — if caffeine were a human being, I would probably be that human being. I don't think I'm capable of being flashy, or cool, and my brain to mouth filter has always been a bit of a problem.

I imagine myself in a sports car and cringe.

Nope.

If Tobias wanted cool and flashy, then he could have uses-an-exceeding-amount-of-tongue-man.

Is that how people normally kiss?

I reach towards my lips.

— Shit, did I set the timer?

"Honey," the voice cuts in like a car crash through the quiet kitchen, and I jump a bit, hips clanging against the metal surface. I cringe at the impact, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment.  "I'm so thrilled that you stopped in."

I'm up to my elbows in dough, kneading down hot cross buns to throw into the proof box. I'm pretty sure there's flour in my left nostril because I can taste the bitterness of it in the back of my throat — I'm also positive I have maple syrup on my cheek, and my pants look like they belong to a king-pin, but such is life.

"You are a sight for sore eyes at this hellish time of the morning."

I reach around to retie my apron with dough covered fingers — about the same time as my manager's shrill, excited voice reaches my ears again,

She's definitely not talking about me."

"This is our little bakeshop," Ms. Martin sounds positively enamored with whoever she's speaking too, and a tour of the kitchen means one thing — that she thinks she's found a new employee.  I stiffen, wiping my face on my shoulder in an attempt to look presentable to whoever my boss thinks is important enough to drag into our lonesome kitchen area.

Of course, out of curiosity, I turn, and of fucking course —

"— and oh, this is my sweet little Oliver! But of course, Tobias, you know Oliver!"

Ms. Martin has a fresh application of liner stretching over her thin lips, and she puckers them happily as she waves her hand in my direction.

Tobias sends me a disturbingly polite smile, one that is obviously masking his sadistic amusement. I feel my jaw slack in mortification at my current flour-covered state, and my irritation creates a lack of ability to feign friendship, staring openly back at him.

Tobias' voice is even and far from calming, "Is he the only baker?"

"Well," Ms. Martin smiles brightly, clasping her hands together as her eyes practically fucking sparkle, "I think it's time he trained an assistant." She sends Tobias a wink, a fucking wink, and hell no, hell no, hell no —

"I'm fine really —"  I cut in, my voice strained and bread proofing rapidly in the heat of the building. "— just fine. Don't you think he's better suited for up front?"

"We've been getting a lot busier with that new intersection they built near the old highway," Ms. Martin almost bounces, ignoring my input completely, "I even started a remodel for more space. Having another baker would just be heavenly, and oh — new talents are always worth picking up, right?" She nudges the Greek man with her upper arm playfully.

He smirks down at her, also blatantly ignoring my dismay — his dark eyes sliding to me with pin-point precision to strike.

"I'd love to learn." He says easily, but to me, it sounds like a demand.

I shoot him down with the most ridiculously fake smile I have ever worn, shoulder's tense, and ready to tackle the stupid giant to the floor and shove uncooked dough down his throat.

Fucking great.

"Sounds wonderful."

—

"You're so rude, do you know that?"  I'm slamming my way out of my car, messenger bag dragging my shoulders back as I try to march my way up to Tobias, "Why the hell did you want to talk to me last night, and thanks for standing me up — by the way— anyway, why did you go on about helping you get a job if you go in and get the job in point five seconds?"

Tobias turns from his garage door, baseball in hand as he raises a brow, leaning back against the plaster podium by his porch. "Well, that's a congratulations if I've ever heard one." He snarks, rolling the cloth of the ball in his palm.  "Are you on lunch?"

"Yes, I'm on lunch — that's not the point. Don't distract me," I take a breath and tip forward on my toes to try and menacingly glare upwards,  "I wanted you to get a job, not my job."

"Relax." He rolls his eyes heavenwards, "I'm not taking your job. I wouldn't."

"Hello? You," I wave towards him, "charming, extraordinarily handsome. Me?" I wave back at myself, "basically a baked potato, if a baked potato could talk and still had zero customer service skills!"

He stares,

"What?"

"If you learn how to do what I do, and it slows down this winter — I won't have any hours." I wave my hands in front of my before gripping the strap of my bag again, "we won't. They'll split them between us, if that — because your little fake personality has Ms. Martin wooed — and besides, that's not the point — the point is that you're rude."

"Rude?" He gives a short, rough laugh as he pushes himself forward,  "Rude? You left your fucking groceries and your front door unlocked — then you didn't come out at three, so I went in to ask for an application."

"I only slept in because you called me a virgin, and then I had a weird dream about stars —!" Tobias snorts, and I slap my hand over my mouth and groan, "you brought my groceries in?"

"You thought I was insulting you," The dark-eyed man tilts his head, arms crossing loosely,  "last night.   That's why you're worked up."

"Don't tell me why I'm worked up!"  I yelp, color flooding to my face.

I'm not worked up over the virgin comment; I am not.

"Did you come home from work on your lunch break just to confront me?"  Tobias is smiling, eyes lit with honest humor,  "you're even out of breath." He reaches forward and taps my darkening cheek, his teeth showing as he chuckles mirthfully.

I feel myself puffing like a blowfish, dropping from my toes and onto the balls of my feet. The slight callous of his finger against my skin has butterflies surging in my stomach and,

what the hell is wrong with me?

"Stop laughing,"  I command, walking backward towards my car — finger pointing at him accusingly, "you're an ass."

"Do you feel better now?" Tobias grins over his shoulder, placing his baseball up on the porch. I feel my earlier aggravation melding into a small, hot flash at the feeling being teased. "Want me to walk you to your car now?"  His smirk is infuriating.

"No,"  I jerk open my door clumsily, he follows me anyway, feet at the edge of my front tire,  "No, I want you to move far, far away from me. I want a new, nice neighbor who gives me friendly, sage advice over the hedge and talks about the weather."

Tobias crosses his arms over the open car door, peering down at me through heated eyes,

"Don't kid yourself,"  His voice has dropped to that low pitch that my body instantly responds to,  "nice isn't what you want."

I flush, brain tripping over words until finally I manage,

"And why is that?!"

"Because. Nice isn't what I'd give you."

--

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